They Tried To Kill My Brothers
by Phoenixflames12
Summary: (WW1 AU) Four years after he left his home and family to fight for King and Country on the battlefields of Belgium, Combeferre returns home a broken man. Haunted by the ghosts of his friends and the knowledge of that one may still survive, he must try and start his life afresh. Please feel free to read and review! Much love and enjoy x
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: August 1918. Haunted by memories of the Somme and the deaths of his friends, Combeferre returns home and tries to restart civilian life again but the road to recovery is proving**_**_ far from easy._**

**_Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive. Please don't sue me!_**

**_ Title stolen from the brilliant song 'Daniel in the Den' by Bastille_**

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They Tried To Kill My Brothers

The train rattles into the station at 1.30 in the afternoon. It's a quiet, humid sort of day; a lazy day when the spiralled heat hovered in waves above the tracks, all the while pressing its' thick fingers deeper and deeper into the unsuspecting bodies of the passengers.

It's been four years.

Four years since that sun baked morning when the news came crackling through the wireless with Mr Asquith's crackle shifting through the cramped living room. Four years since he sat in shocked silence for a fraction of a second too long; watching the almost hypnotic swing of Juliette's plait as she stuffed the end into her rosebud mouth; barely able to believe it as Isabelle leapt to her feet and fled back to the hospital in a whirl of starched white linen and shining steel chrome. Four years since he stood in the courtyard dressed in freshly pressed khaki, trying and failing to say goodbye…

It's been four years and little has changed to the naked eye. The station is still the same with sloping slate roof swooping down onto redbrick adorned with honeysuckle and climbing vines; the timetables are still relatively similar to the ones which had greeted passengers back in '14; the only alterations visible if you squinted and even then they were incredibly easy to miss. The conductor still bustles through the waiting room with his sheaf of papers; still the same venerable grandfather figure with a snowy white walruses moustache, even if his jacket strains slightly at the chest; brass buttons always in danger of popping with every ounce of extra weight they receive.

A tall, thin officer in his mid twenties with a mop of dark hair and dark eyes drawn with exhaustion behind wire framed spectacles watches this all with tired eyes as the train hurtles to a standstill; puffing and snorting like a horse pulled up short in the middle of a race. The glass beneath his loosely clenched fist is cool to touch as he flicks his gaze to the other passengers and tries to force a smile. It comes out tight and tired; the warmth the gesture once held now distant, cold and forced like the rest of them; too caught up in their own heads, battling with their own demons of the past four years to really notice anything else.

From the station a door slams and instinctively a hand delves inside the hidden pockets of a thick, army regulation jacket and draws out two frayed scraps of paper; the flattened wood pulp soft and travel stained from much thumbing. He knows the words of the first by heart now, ever since they had been pressed into his palm almost four years ago to the day.

_'And surely I am with you, until the end of the age'. Matthew 28:20 _

_Don't forget us Combeferre. You were and are an absolutely phenomenal CO. We won't forget you.' _

Enjolras' thoughts. Courfeyrac's handwriting. A soft smile begins to tug at the corners of his lips at the sight of those words. At the soft, italic swoop of Courfeyrac's handwriting, the centre's grace present even on paper in the careful fall of his 'y' and the delicate lines of his 'w'. Sitting there on the train, he sees Courfeyrac as he had been back in the trenches before he had led them like lemmings over the top. Sees once more the centre's unruly crown of ebony curls, the hazel, gold -flecked eyes dark with determination as together they readied their bayonets and the first soft notes of 'Jerusalem' had filled his heart with hope.

On his other side he sees Enjolras; glacial blue eyes ablaze with hope; his tangle of sunlit curls caressing his cheeks; hope sparking through every crevice of his body. He remembers the weight of a hand; dexterous, marble digits suddenly slick with sweat slipping into his own and squeezing as he raised the whistle to his lips; eyes flicking desperately over each and every one of his followers; hoping against hope that this final beat of calm before the storm would not be the last he saw of them.

Bahorel caught in the chest by sniper's fire. Bahorel, their fighter, their rock; Bahorel with his booming laugh and bear like embraces. Bahorel who had hailed as a butchers' boy from Putney and had enlisted for the hope of a better life far away from the salty stink of blood rising up from the heat of the river.

Bossuet tripped up and blown to bits by a grenade; dark, laughing eyes suddenly swept blank by the freezing, unforgiving chill of death. Bossuet who was forever tripping over things, forever laughing and dealing out cards or dominoes; knowing full well that he would win.

Courfeyrac caught by wire, the ghost of a last laugh slipping from his face as the screams for help that would not and could not come ripped themselves desperately through the air. Combeferre had held him for a brief moment as he struggled, fighting fruitlessly through the wire that would slowly claim him; held him and told him that they would meet again; all of them; that it was going to be all right even through he knew full well that it wasn't as the younger man's heart thudded desperately against his chest, clinging to a life which both men knew was over. _'All right?!' _Courfeyrac had asked; his voice bitter and choked with blood, hazel eyes pooling with unwanted emotion. Combeferre had nodded and bitten back tears as he held him closer; ignoring the bite of the wire, ignoring the whistling wail of the shells and the crack of the gunfire as the weight of the body in his arms grew sagged with the steady approach of death.

'Don't shut your eyes', he had ordered at last, voice cracking, fingers frantically pressing through Courfeyrac's uniform, forcing his hands over his heart in a desperate attempt to keep it from stilling; and yet knowing all the while it was hopeless. The centre had smiled at those words; a tender, troubled smile as at last, at long last, his breathing evened out and the grip on Combeferre's jacket relaxed.

Feuilly's head blown by a grenade before they had even run a hundred yards; his body slumped like a marionette whose strings have been cut against the wire as the rest ran on through the maelstrom of shrapnel fire; the image of the blackened mask that was once their diligent, understated working man imprinted forever in their minds.

Grantaire caught by a shell he did not see. He had been drinking the night before whilst playing dominoes with Bossuet and Courfeyrac against Combeferre's wishes and really was too intoxicated to fight but went anyway; saying it would do him good to do something for King and Country, even if it was, as he said with a dry, humourless laugh; only dying.

Jean Prouvaire taken prisoner. A sudden, dry sob catches in Combeferre's throat at the thought of the poet, the youngest of their ragtag band of brothers as his head drops into his hands of its own accord. The poet with his tangled mane of auburn which he had stubbornly refused to cut in protest of army regulations and amber eyes blazing with youthful hope for a brighter tomorrow. Jehan who had been sixteen and far too young but still managed to lie about his age in order to enlist, now probably subject to horrors which Combeferre cannot bear thinking about.

Joly demolished by shell fire. Combeferre feels his breath catch in his throat at the thought of the medic with his high, fine features knelt beside the remains of what had been Bossuet; eyes blank with grief, hands trembling uncontrollably as he cradled the remains of their beloved eagle in his arms, barely noticing the carnage around him. They had yelled at him to keep running, keep moving, to get out of the enemy lines but Joly hadn't seemed to hear them as he buried his face in the scraps of blackened cloth that had once been his friend; barely even noticing the whistling approach of the shells which signalled his death.

Enjolras… He had not seen what had become of Enjolras; his best friend, his comrade at arms, his brother in all but blood. He will never forgive himself for that, knows that the swirling abyss of guilt and grief that has clawed itself into his heart; twisting itself round and round like a dagger in his chest will never leave him now. Not now, not when he knows somewhere, somehow, that Enjolras could still be alive; clings to that small, silver thread of desperate hope like a sailor clinging to a scrap of driftwood amid a storm tossed sea. Knows, hopes, prays that by some twist of fate; some desperate balance of the scales that they could be reunited once again…

'Sir?' A soft cough at his side makes him start and look round, blinking owlishly in the light. It has not been long since the last lot of bandages came off from over his eyes and the blind brown orbs now sheltered behind the comforting weight of wire framed spectacles still feel tender.

A girl of around eight is waiting there and with a pang he remembers that Juliette had been eight when he was called up. Eight years old and angry; a fiery redhead with an explosive temper, willing to kick and scream her way out of a steady stream of black gowned governesses and into the convent school which, from her irregular, scrawled out letters, she absolutely hated.

_'I can't wait to come home,' _she had said in her last letter; the one now frayed and thin with much thumbing balanced on his knees. '_Will you be there? Please say you will. Mother and Father and the Nuns are nice enough but I miss you. Anna doesn't understand why you left in the first place and Iz… She's different Henri. She doesn't want to climb trees or go for romps any more and she's hardly ever at home anyway 'cause she's always working. I miss you. I want to climb the Ash by the pond and catch moths again like we did on your last leave. Come home soon. 'iette.' _

'Yes?' He tries to smile at her but she shrinks back, melting into the safety of the woman's hand on her shoulder. He knows how he must look to her; this sweet summer child who was barely old enough to remember life before the war gazing into the gas blistered, broken face of a veteran whose whole body is a temple to the ghosts of events she can barely relate to.

'The train's terminating Sir,' she says as clearly as she can manage and shrinks further away before the hand on her shoulder tugs her on and off onto the safety of the platform.

_The train's almost terminating… His time alone with his best beloved brothers is almost at an end... _In desperation he casts a glance towards the slightly sloping ceiling and then lets his eyes fall back onto the scraps of paper still clutched in his hand. '_Don't forget us Combeferre'._

'_I won't Mes Amis. I promise I won't'_, he whispers back; his lips moving in silent, prayer like speech as with a brief sweep of of the empty carriage he touches his cap and slowly makes his way outside, his mind full of the ghosts of those best beloved men whom he had been so lucky to call brothers.

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_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! This is going to be a melting pot of all my WW1 AU's and so although it isn't crucial to have read them, it would probably help. Please be aware that I am not trying to trivialise the subject matter by using it in conjunction with Les Miserables; simply trying to keep the material alive through a different representation.**_

_**Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!**_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N: Another chapter for all the amazing people who have decided to read, review, follow and favourite this story! You have no idea how much all your kind words and support over this topic means to me and I love and thank you all from the bottom of my heart!_**

**_Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my admiration for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me!_**

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Chapter Two

The grey stuff of the civilian skirt chafes slightly against Isabelle's legs as she bunches a handful of fabric up in her free hand and lets it cascade through her fingers as she leans against the bicycle. It feels odd to be in civilian clothes again after spending so long in the crisp, sharp linen of her nurses' uniform, even if it is only for an hour.

Without warning, she remembers the short, blunt telegram that had been pressed into her hands late yesterday afternoon by the Matron; a tall, formidable woman with a sharp Northern accent juxtaposing with the seemingly soft, dark eyes which could flash fire at any moment if her orders were disobeyed.

'You can have until 3:30', she had told Isabelle quietly before sweeping down the wards; the long starched linen of her skirt rustling as she went. 'But I want you back in uniform for the end of the afternoon rounds on time. Is that understood?' The last three words had been enunciated with short, sharp breaths; the dark eyes flashing and Isabelle had nodded hurriedly; ducking her head and biting her lip until she tasted the sharp, sweet saltiness of blood gushing over her teeth to stop herself from answering back. It was an unwritten law in the hospital that Matron's word was law unto itself and any foolish VADs who dreamt about disobeying it or even worse, answering back would pay sorely for their insolence.

'_You have until 3:30', _the words echo through Isabelle's brain as she checks her watch and chances a glance at the platform and her fellows. A small boy, a few years older than Anna, darts between the legs of the racing crowd chasing a metal hoop with a stick; his pale face flushed in the afternoon sun, Isabelle flashes him a small smile as he darts past her, reaching out to flick the hoop onwards as her eyes return back to the track.

She has not seen her brother, the eldest by two years since his last brief spell on leave nearly a year and a half ago; a blissfully brief weekend punctuated by moments of painful silence, when Henri's darkly handsome face would become pained and distant with the ghosts, the memories of men and events that she, still a slightly green VAD at the local hospital, could not imagine.

She can imagine them now though. She has heard men scream for their mothers, their sisters, their lovers, their families as they writhed in agony on the hard hospital cots; their faces barely recognizable under their bloody, blackened masks; the only living things seeming to be their eyes, wide, white and milky, staring at nothing as their mouths continued to work in a silent, desperate plea for help from ghosts that could not come.

'Iz', the sound of a mans' voice catches her unawares, the words barely a whisper and yet laced with such internal agony that her heart twists suddenly in her chest as she turns to face him, swinging the bicycle round as she does, the bite of the chrome digging in a sudden flash of pain through her skirt, grounding her to reality. He is still taller than she is, even after all these years; tall and dark, his liqueur coloured eyes shielded by the same wire framed spectacles that she remembers from their childhood back in the farmhouse with the tumbling border of pink splashed roses that would always be lost under a rug or in the bottom of a drawer or tucked away in the spine of his latest book.

'Iz,' there's a desperate note to her name; the first phoneme dragging itself out against his lips as she feels his hands reach out to take her own; his fingers shaking slightly as they grip her own digits, rough and calloused through hours of scrubbing under ice cold water with carbolic soap.

She finds herself focussing on the weight of his hands clutching hers; on the pressure of known skin that she had thought she had forgotten flooding through her being, not trusting herself to speak, not trusting herself to face him.

A beat of silence of passes between them, a silence that feels far too long and she desperately tries to summon up the courage to look him full in the face.

The eyes that meet her are exactly the same as they had been all those years ago; dark and fathomless and yet filled with such silent, bitter, desperate regret that she finds that after a moment she has to cut his gaze. 'I'm sorry', she mumbles by way of an apology; knowing how idiotic she must look to him, how he must see her as the self same blushing schoolgirl that she had been trying to be a woman when he first went off to war.

'Isabelle', she feels him reach up to cup her chin, to pull her gaze from the tops of her regulation hospital shoes that she had not had the chance to change out of. She can't look at him. She can't look at him because she's seen with her own eyes what the effects of gas attacks are for their victims. Has seen once handsome faces looking little more than child's putty; cheeks sliced through like butter with red hot, angry scars, what once were noses, mouths, cheeks now twisted grotesquely out of shape.

She feels herself swallowing back a sudden, unwanted sob as she rises to his touch, willing herself not to look away.

The face that meets her gaze is tired. Tired and broken and yet full of such desperate painful hope for things to have turned out differently that it makes her heart ache. His nose has been broken, she notices and the gas marks have left large red welts circling his eyes, the fiery heat of the gas swooping into the soft rainbow of brutal bruising caressing his lower lids.

The chickenpox scar just below his left eyelid is still the same though and she finds herself clinging to that; clinging to that one tantalizing thread of normality in this face which is so different to anything she can remember about him. Even the scrappy moustache that he had tried to grow in conformation to army regulations seems odd now, even though she is sure he had worn it when he was last on leave.

'I need to be back at the hospital in fifteen minutes', she says finally, unhelpfully. He nods; a flicker of something she can't quite place flashing momentarily through his eyes, waiting with the deferential politeness that she always remembers from dreaded childhood visits to see ancient relics of relations swooping through every finely worked line of liqueur coloured brilliance.

He nods silently, a muscle working in his jaw as he shoulders his pack, chewing his lip as he watches her swing the bike round in order to mount it; her eyes fixed determinately ahead.

'Isabelle… Please…' He tries again, the word he hardly used with her at all when they were both at home feeling odd and alien and at last she turns; a look of desperate, painful regret etched like ink on her fine, dark features. He feels the heat of her gaze scanning him; taking in the bunch of fabric hanging off his shoulders, the tight exhaustion tugging in every line and bend of his darkly handsome face made worse it seems by the shadowed ghosts lurking just beneath the flickering light ablaze in his eyes.

'The… The little ones will want to see you,' she says after a minute, hating the awkwardness that has crashed between them as she tries to force a smile which does not feel in the least bit sincere. Even he has to smile at that; a spark she thought that she had forgotten leaping for the briefest of moments in his wide, depthless eyes.

'If they still remember me', he answers quietly; his eyes fixing themselves onto his boots and, following his gaze; she spots for the first time that he is favouring his left leg for balance and has to bite back the sudden tirade of questions from spilling over her tongue.

_If they still remember me. _The words hit like silent bullets to her chest; each one more painful than the last as he utters them, his voice barely rising above a whisper in the sultry afternoon heat. Just this morning she had heard Anna ask their Mother who the bespectacled man in the sepia photograph dressed in the full khaki uniform of the Grenadier Guards that stood on the mantelpiece beside a vase of fresh dog roses was.

Their little sisters' voice had been sluggish with blinked back sleep and yet the confusion was so painfully obvious that Isabelle; fighting with her cap in front of the mirror propped up on the kitchen table; had had to bite back tears. Anna had only been three when Henri was called up; too young to understand why her brother who used to carry her on his shoulders or point out a fascinating species of moth he hadn't spotted before fluttering in the herbaceous border and made her laugh by drawing ink puppets on his fingers was going away.

From somewhere above their heads, hidden in the dappled canopy of sycamore leaves, the station clock chimes the hour and Isabelle feels her heart slow. She's late. She's late and she has to say goodbye or Matron will have her guts for garters. She's late and it is her brother standing before her; her best beloved eldest brother looking tall and tired in crumpled khaki and leaning heavily on his right leg for balance, his dark eyes shrouded by the ghosts of so many memories, so many names she has only heard snatches of from his infrequent letters home. _Bahorel… Bossuet… Courfeyrac… Enjolras… Feuilly… Grantaire… Jehan… Joly…. My friends… My brothers…_

'We need to get you home', she says when she finally finds her voice; forcefully shoving all thought of Matron's wrath firmly to the back of her mind and reaching out to swing her bicycle round in front of her. The walk to their tumbled down farmhouse isn't far but somehow she supposes it could be something to do with being on the wards at all hours tells her that she can't leave him.

He nods, his teeth working over his lips, biting back reproaches, trying to control his emotions; the pain that he is going to be a burden in this strange new civilian life he has found himself thrown into all too evident behind his eyes.

'They'll… They'll make me talk about it, won't they?' He sounds like a frightened schoolboy standing in the dusky afternoon light, a schoolboy awaiting a punishment and she feels her heart break all over again; each word feeling like a silent dagger plunging into the weeping, broken muscle.

'I'll tell them not to', she says firmly, reaching up to tuck a traitorous lock of hair that has dared to come loose from under her cap and yet already acknowledging just how hard it will be to stop Juliette from talking, from saying something that will hit a nerve, that will make Henri recede into himself, to shut them all away when that is the very last thing he needs to do.

She can feel his eyes on her again. Can feel the ghosts that crowd behind the blind, brown orbs threatening to drown him as she tentatively reaches out to touch his arm. 'Henri…' When he doesn't make to move away; her grip tightens; fingers roving over the too tight skin rising to her touch. His eyes are distant when they finally reach her own, his voice hoarse and choked, still rising barely above a tearstained whisper.

'They had so much more to live for Isabelle…. So, so much… And I…I…' His voice cracks at that and before she knows what she's doing, she finds him in her arms; the juddering rise and fall of his bony shoulders pressing painfully against her own, the hollow weight of his salt stained cheek against hers as the tears continue to leak from the blind brown eyes; the itch of his scrabbly, compulsory moustache tickling her chin, the way he buries his head into the thin cotton of her blouse and clings to her, the only audible sound coming from his silent, choking sobs.

'We will remember them Henri. All of them. I promise'.

They remain there for what feels like an eternity; not speaking, not moving, drinking each other up as Isabelle feels her best beloved brother slowly begin to return to himself. Deep down she knows that nothing is going to be as it was in those blissful, sun kissed days before the war; but she hopes, prays that somehow, by some blissful twist of fate, they will be able to slowly mend their shattered lives into something that resembles a semblance of normality once again.

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_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!**_

_**Much love and **_**_enjoy x_**


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: Another chapter for everyone (especially Sarahbob) who has decided to read, review, follow and favourite this story! You have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated and I love and thank you from the bottom of my heart!**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly lay claim to Combeferre? I do however own all my OC's but I am simply trying to convey my love for our beloved guide into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

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Chapter Three

The walk back to the farmhouse feels like an eternity as Combeferre focuses on staying upright; leaning heavily on his good leg to keep his balance. Beside him he can feel Isabelle's worried glance flicking to him every so often; her eyes, as sharp as his are weak pooling with compassionate concern as they finally crest the hill that cuts away the station from the rest of the village.

The weight of the pack digs into the fabric of his jacket; the webbing a strangely comforting heaviness against his back as he focuses on the action of putting one foot in front of the other; desperately trying not to think about the reception that will await him when he finally arrives home. Trying not to think about Juliette; bright, vivacious, wickedly wild Juliette who would most likely be repulsed and scared by this skeletal shadow of a brother that Isabelle had brought back to them and Anna; small, impish Anna who had clung to their Mothers' skirts when he had last come home on leave and whimpered fearfully at the sight of her eldest sibling framed in freshly pressed khaki against the mid morning sun spilling through the shadowed kitchen.

Finally, after what feels like years; they reach the house. Or rather, the sounds of the house reach them as the sun continues to sink behind the fringe of sycamore trees; bathing the world in a bath of dappled golden brilliance. Combeferre hears the sound of a shutter banging itself open and a sudden shriek of surprise followed by a crescendo of flustered squawking from the hens as they rise up in a great, confused, squawking chorus of dappled browns, oranges and burnished gold to seek shelter in the trees shielding the house from prying eyes.

From somewhere in the shady, sun dappled distance, he hears a dog bark and shifts his pack; wincing as the action sends a sudden, jarring spasm of pain crashing up his bad leg.

'It's all right', Isabelle murmurs; moving closer and gripping his arm in a silent act of comfort as he stiffens against the pain; feeling all his muscles taut with exhaustion desperately trying to repel the sudden torrent of icy fire from overwhelming him completely.

'Is it?' He manages to ask, feeling his eyes slip shut against the sudden, jarring agony, each word feeling bitingly bitter against his tongue. She nods silently, desperately, it seems to him; her hazel eyes swimming with concern as they flick back along the dappled avenue that leads to the front yard.

'It will be,' she says quietly; her voice taking on the firm tone that he dimly remembers from infrequent moments of lucidity back at the shadowy field hospital when the soft firmness of the nurses voices floating around and above his cot had been the only things which had kept him from falling back into the never ending pit of misery and despair over the Somme and his injuries. _Bahorel… Bossuet… Courfeyrac… Enjolras… Feuilly… Grantaire… Jehan… Joly… Oh Mes Amis... I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… _Isabelle's eyes are filled with tears as her grip on his arm tightens for a brief moment, silent, heart-shattering emotion pooling from every strand of finely worked strand of hazel coloured brilliance.

But he has little time to brood as without warning, there is the sound of a body crashing over a gate and a sudden weight full of lanky arms and legs too long for its' body barrelling itself into his chest. He barely has time to register the flash of plaited auburn mane that is tumbling out of its' ribbon before a kiss that is sticky with summer heat is smothered against his cheek and his hands are grabbed by much smaller fingers shivering with excitement as they squeeze his own.

''iette…' The sudden sharpness in Isabelle's voice is marred by the small smile that is playing against her lips as she watches their younger sister slowly draw away from the warmth of Combeferre's body; eyes huge with wonder. Combeferre lets her body go with reluctance; all too soon missing the warmth stinking of late summer radiating from every crevice of his sisters' bony frame.

'We didn't know you were coming back today!' Their younger sisters' voice is sharp with good-natured reproaches and yet beaming with an utterly infectious grin as she steps back to survey her best beloved older brother. Without warning, Combeferre feels a sudden, unwanted flush creep up against his skin and lifts his chin in a desperate attempt to keep the persistent flow of unwanted emotion from bursting its' barriers; allowing his gaze to scan the rest of the leaf shielded avenue that is bathed in a bath of dappled green and gold.

'Mother and Father will be so pleased... Isabelle, you _should've_ told the rest of us though but we can go and look for moths tomorrow, can't we? I'm so happy you're back…' He lets her chatter; allowing the still innocent childish prattle wash over him as she leads the way back to the house; the warmth of her hand clasped firmly in his acting like a magnet, dragging him forward into the present and yet forcing him to spiral back into the past.

Back to four years previously when her happy babble would be accompanied by a trip to the river cutting below the orchard where they would strip to their underwear and plunge into the inky water stinking of peat and he would try to teach her how to swim and usually end up in an intense battle of splashing or a scramble up the ancient Ash whose knurled branches could be reached through his attic bedroom window to look for moths...

The house looks exactly the same as it had done when he was last on leave- a small, sleeping, red brick monster drowsily pulling itself awake. The roses need deadheading he notices dimly as he gazes up at the tanged border of pink and white splashes which frame the kitchen and study windows, feeling the warmth of Juliette's hand slip away from his as she dashes into the porch; her whole body bubbling with the importance of her discovery.

After a moment, he feels the warmth of another body pressing close to his own and the pressure of a hand slipping into his own and squeezing softly. Squeezing as Enjolras' hand had done so all those years ago as they stood in line; watching the icy plumes of their breath catch in the steadily rising morning mist, bayonets readied against the trench, hearts brimming with hope that with this final charge they could let the maddening bloodshed end. A sharp, sudden pain clutches at his heart as the memory of that morning grows steadily clearer and he has to bite back a sudden sob as he remembers the silent torrent of passionate fire blazing from every crevice of his brother in all but blood's body as he squeezed the dexterous, marble digits; hoping against hope that this was not going to be the last time he held them.

_Enjolras… Mon Petit… I will find you… We will be together again… All of us… I swear it… Hold on Icarus…Wherever you are… Wherever they've taken you… Hold on..._

Remembers the slowly loosening weight of Courfeyrac's fingers clenched within his own as he supported the crown of ebony curls in his lap and begged him to hold on; seeing the soft, sad smile tugging listlessly at the centre's lips as his life left him. Life that had flooded through trembling fingers in a river of sickeningly salty scarlet before he could find something to staunch it with, before he could remember his medical training at Cambridge, before… _Oh Courfeyrac… I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Can you forgive me Mon Ami? Can you possibly forgive me? But still he could see the never quenching light slowly slipping from the Irishman's wide, dark pupils; the hazel eyes flecked with fiery gold slowly dimming as his own fingers; trembling with shock reached up to brush down the lids of the boy, the man who he would never have the honour, nor the privilege of looking on again._

'Henri?' A soft touch to his shoulder makes him start, as he feels the gentle pressure of a handkerchief being pressed into his hand as Isabelle slowly reaches up to thumb away the sudden stream of salty silver that he can't remember shedding.

'Isabelle…' He finds himself whispering brokenly, the name choked with tears still feeling strangely odd to his tongue and she nods in sad reply; cocking her head to one side to survey her handiwork, her free hand squeezing his own still tighter. Her light brown eyes are dark with pain as her gaze continues to search his face; her hair tumbled out of her cap so that two thin waterfalls of cocoa brown caress her high, fine cheekbones.

They watch each other for a moment, a moment that could be an eternity but in reality is merely the length of a ragged, tear stained breath as Combeferre desperately tries to pull himself together. Tries to tell himself that Isabelle has seen horrors too; has seen men little more than boys screaming for death as the surgeons swooped on the mud caked, blood soaked bodies oozing pus and the steady stench of rotten life. Has seen…

'Isabelle? Isabelle, why didn't you… Juliette told us… Oh… Oh…' The voice tails away into a sudden cry of surprise as all in a sudden, he feels the warm weight of calloused hands running over his face and the soft, sobbing scent of silent kisses falling against his skin as he melts gratefully into the waiting embrace; the salt of her tears burning what could be feeling back into his icy, salt stained skin.

'Mother…' The word is a kiss to his lips, a welcome breath of light and hope amid all the darkness that has encloaked his being for so long.

'Mother…' He whispers again, the word lost within the folds of her dress smelling of earth and flour, of light and life and hope as she pulls him close, one hand reaching up to catch itself within his hair; the other beginning to rub continuous circles against the nubs and bends of his backbone as if he were six years old and suffering from measles, waking suddenly in the too hot darkness of his attic bedroom from a fever dream.

'Hush now,' she whispers finally when speech comes in some coherent manner once again; listening to the sudden, choking sobs full of the same bitter, desperate regret that she dimly remembers from that August afternoon all those years ago when he had first said goodbye. 'Hush now _Mon petit Papillion, _it's all right. I'm here, it's all right.'

But even as she says it, even as the words, words of comfort, of reassurance rise to her lips as softly and as easily as breathing, she wonders whether what she says has any grain of truth in it. Because how could it be all right? How could it possibly be all right now that her beloved eldest child and only boy with the bright, lopsided grin and fiery eyes has been replaced by this haunted, ghost like figure? She doesn't know and doesn't want to think about it as from the front door she hears a shriek of sudden surprise and steps back to allow Juliette and Anna to greet their brother.

* * *

_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! My Muse has just returned after an extended holiday with me suffering from writers' block concerning this story so any questions, comments, constructive criticisms etc will be like chocolate to my brain!**_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_


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